


Sick Duck (Or, How To Cure the Common Cold)

by Rhanon_Brodie



Category: Arctic Monkeys
Genre: Alex Turner / Reader - Freeform, Alex Turner / You - Freeform, Ass Play, Chicken Soup, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, He calls her lamb AND duck because he can, Oral Sex, Slight Rimming, gratuitous use of the Sheffield dialect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 08:36:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2144127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhanon_Brodie/pseuds/Rhanon_Brodie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's sick.  He's just returned from a summer away touring.  It's his first night back and she feels like death warmed over.  What's a girl to do?  Why, unlock the door and let him in, and let him take care of her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick Duck (Or, How To Cure the Common Cold)

**Author's Note:**

> All recognizable elements herein are the property of their respective owners. The remaining content is mine.
> 
> This is P WITH P, tha knows?
> 
> Okay, I'll stop.

“Ugh.”

You look in the mirror, and cringe at what you’re greeted with. The tickle in your throat that started two days ago has gone full-blown cold-mode, and now your eyes are red and watery, you skin is pale, and there are pillow creases on the side of your face. Your throat feels like it’s on fire, and you’ve been coughing up a storm for the entire day, and most of the night before. You could happily sleep for another four days, but you’ve forced yourself upright, and currently you’re making your best attempt to clean up. In the kitchen, the calendar on the fridge has a big circle around today’s date, with a name and a time: 7 pm. You cough, the sound wet, and in your chest, and you turn and blink at the watch on your wrist. It’s six.

“ _Ugh_.”

You could call and cancel; you know he’d understand. But it’s his first night back in literally months, and he’d sounded so excited to be home, and to be making plans for dinner a few live shows around the district. You hate disappointing anyone, and you can’t stand to see him crestfallen, even though he’ll shrug it off and tell you that you have no control over whether or not you’re under the weather.

With a deep breath, you shake your head, wincing at the ache that lances behind your eyes, and cursing as it throbs before fading. Then, you crank on the taps and splash water on your face before reaching for your toothbrush. You can pull this off. Brushing your teeth is actually quite nice; you’re certain it’s been at least 24 hours since you’ve done so prior. With your mouth tingling, you smile at your reflection, not feeling it at all. But you’re nothing, if you’re not determined, and you pad down the hall to your room and try to avoid direct eye contact with the bed.

Instead, you march to the closet, hell-bent on tugging on those skinny, grey jeans, and that lavender print floral blouse you’d scored on sale last week. Anything to get out of the fluffy warmth of your turquoise bathrobe that’s become more of a uniform in the last two days, than anything else. You body protests, chilling aches making your skin crawl, and think maybe a shower might be in order. Wait, do you have _time_ to shower? Your hands go to your hair, and you make another face at the mess you feel, and decide that wearing it up, with copious amounts of dry shampoo, will have to do. Or maybe a hat. He likes you in hats. Still, you move to the bed, and clamber up onto the mattress, crawling to the bedside table where your phone lays charging, and click it on, checking the time. It’s 6:15.

And there’s a message from him:

_Can’t wait to see you tonight, lamb. Been way too long. Wear your dancing shoes, going on a proper tear tonight_.

You close your eyes, the words coming to life in your brain. It’s definitely been too long since you’ve heard his voice in person - the phone, and the albums, just don’t cut it. And you smile at the nickname, because you’re not a nickname kind of girl, but for him, you are, and you just can’t say no to his boyish charm. _Cheeky bugger_ , you think, rolling to your back and closing your eyes.

The doorbell wakes you up. And judging by the repeated tone of it, whoever is jabbing the thing has been doing so for a spell.

Wait.

You sit up with croak and check the phone in your hand. Seven pm, right on time; you know who’s at your door and you swear, groaning as you realize you’ve fallen asleep and haven’t even begun to get ready. Wrapping the sides of your robe around you body, you shuffle down the hall and then to the stairs, taking them slowly. The doorbell has stopped, but it’s been replaced by a gentle knocking, followed by your name in a voice laced with lament and question.

“Hey,” you rasp, opening the door and taking in your boy in all his glory.

He smiles so brightly, his warm brown eyes dancing with genuine delight, but his face soon falls as he takes you in. Concern makes his features pull, and he cocks his head. “Are you quite all right, darling?”

“Fine,” you shrug, coughing at the end of the word, and waving off his attempt to argue your answer. “I’m just running a little late.”

He snorts, entering your place and closing the door, watching as you amble towards the kitchen. “Late for bed, you mean,” he says, following you a moment later. “Sweetheart, if you’re sick, you’re sick. Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” He catches your elbow before you can escape to the living room, and he gently pulls you back, and around to face him. When he sees your tired eyes, he clicks his tongue and frowns. His hands gently cup your face, and he tilts his head in askance.

“Don’t frown,” you plead, immediately feeling a pang of guilt. “I’m sorry, I know you had the night planned - “

“Plans can be broken,” he interrupts, pulling out his phone and dialling a number. “Hey mate,” he says when the other end picks up. “No, we’re going to have to cancel. She’s sick. Yeah, really sick.” He pauses and looks you up and down. “No, I think sleep is in order, mate. Yeah, you too. I will. Cheers.” He hangs up and looks at you. “Helders says he hopes you feel better.”

You smile weakly, and look at him. He’s definitely gone all out tonight, opting for his favorite worn jeans and leather jacket, and a deep blue shirt with rockabilly flair, white detail piped along the yoke and placard, pearl buttons, and a swallow embroidered on either side of the placard, a delicate rose grasped between each beak. It’s your favorite shirt, the one he found in a specialty shop during a stop in the Pacific Northwest when you’d driven out to meet him and spend the weekend at the music festival. His quiff is tousled, not the normal slick thing, but a little careless, and the ends of his ebony hair curl loosely over his widow’s peak. The snaps of his shirt are open past his throat, and his gold chain glints in the overhead light. You sigh, a little disappointed that you’re not going out. “You should still go,” you try, nodding towards the door.

He quirks an eyebrow and then shakes his head with a small laugh. “Not likely, darling; who would take care of you?”

“I’ll be fine,” you insist.

He shakes his head again. “It’s not a problem.”

When you open your mouth to argue, he moves in front of you, shushing you. “I can go out any time. It’s me first night home and I wanted to spend it with you. So, I’m going to.”

“I’m probably going to watch a movie and pass out,” you reply.

“I’ll watch with you. An’ you can fall asleep on me. When’s the last time we ‘ad a good cuddle, then?” He stops and looks closely at you. “ ‘Ave you eaten today?”

You pause at the last question, trying to remember when last ate, and when you can’t recall, you shrug. “Some toast this morning? I think?”

He groans, rolling his eyes at your stubborn streak, and then steers you to a stool in the kitchen, pushing on your shoulders so you’ll sit down, and he levels you with a playful stare that says 'stay put'. Then, he rummages through your cupboards and fridge.

“Gads, woman, ‘aven’t you anything edible?” He fishes out a questionable take out container, carefully flips the lid open, and shudders at the scent that wafts from it. “This is sadder than me own fridge, an’ I’ve been gone all summer.”

You grumble and shrug, not really having an answer for his observation.

From the cupboard over the kitchen sink, he clicks his tongue again, noting the meager tea colleciton. “Never ‘ad a good tea stash,” he mutters, clapping the cupboards closed. “Right, then. _You_ ,” he says, pointing a finger at you, “are going to bed. I’m going to the market to pick a few things up. C’mon,” he says, gathering you from the stool and ushering you to your bedroom.

“Love, you’re like ice,” he says when he’s got the blankets flipped back and he’s gently tucking you in, fingers brushing your clammy forehead. “No fever,” he surmises a moment later. “I won’t be long, yeah? Stay in bed.”

Your eyes are already closing, and you mutter your agreement to his orders. You’re asleep before the front door even closes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You must be dreaming. All you’ve smelled for the last few days is hot lemon relief and cherry cough-drops. Right now, however, it’s rosemary, and savory chicken, and it smells heavenly. Opening your eyes, you manage to unwrap yourself from the cocoon of blankets you’ve twisted yourself into. Your stomach rumbles audibly, and you move towards the aroma, shrugging an oversized sweater over the boy shorts and t shirt you fell asleep in. As you near the kitchen, you hear the soft baritone you know so well crooning gently, and the sounds of cupboards opening and closing, and dishes clanging gently.

There’s a softer, subtler scent underlying the chicken and rosemary, and when you make it to the kitchen, you find him standing in front of the stove, half-humming, half-singing an old English lullaby, while he stirs something steaming in a small saucepan. Inhaling again, you relax with the mellow scent of black licorice that’s taken over. With a sigh, you lean in the doorway and watch him work.

“Smells good. What is that?” You finally ask, moving towards him and the stove.

He looks up and over his shoulder at you, his smile flashing broadly. “Sleeping Beauty has risen,” he replies, leaning in to kiss your cheek when you’re close enough. His lips are soft, and warm, and you shiver, wanting something a little less chaste. You’re not willing to give him your cold, though, and you reluctantly lean away with an affectionate smile.

“Contagious,” you inform him, on tip-toe now to peek over his shoulder at the stove.

There are two pots simmering; the larger of the two has what you can plainly see is chicken noodle soup. “Did you cook?” you asked, bemused.

He barks his laughter, and shakes his head. “Hardly.” He motions to the empty tin on the counter. “But, I did add the rosemary. Me mum swears by it for helping with colds.”

“Mmmm. And that?” You point to the smaller pot that is gently steaming.

“That,” he says, moving it off the heat and carrying it to a large mug, “is an anise cozy. Star anise, steamed milk, cinnamon, and a dash of whiskey. Mum swears by this, too.” When the milk hits the bottom of the mug, the scent of black licorice intensifies, and you hum with a renewed appetite. You open the fridge to grab the pitcher of water, and are floored by the semi-full shelves. It’s not much, but he’s picked up the basics: milk, eggs, a rasher of peameal bacon, a small block of old cheddar, heavy cream, butter, bread, tomatoes, head of iceberg, and a pint of blackberries. Your eyes scan left to your counter, and there’s a bunch of bananas, and three apples displayed in a basket. 

“You’re a doll,” you inform him, snagging a blackberry and the water pitcher before you turn back to him. “You grocery shopped, you cooked…”

“Don’t forget, I called me mum, too,” he points out, emphaszing this with the wooden spoon.

You take a closer look at him. “Is that my apron?”

“It’s me favorite shirt,” he defends, fiddling with the frilly floral fringe of the apron he’s donned. “You never mind,” he scolds when you start to giggle. “Clearly you’re not feeling too bad to take the piss outta me, eh? Go sit down. It’s almost ready.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You could get used to this sort of treatment, and you sigh contentedly as you let the spoon drop to the bottom of the empty bowl. You’re warm now, and across the table, he smiles at you and your rosy cheeks.

“Look better already, love.”

“I feel a little better,” you admit, wrapping your hands around your mug and breathing in the anise tea again before taking another sip.

He hums, and then stands, clearing the dishes away. As he snags your bowl, you steal a kiss, pressing your lips warmly to his cheek.

“Oi, thought you was contagious?” 

“It’s your cheek,” you reason around a yawn.

“You should really be in bed,” he says.

You figure he means it to sound scolding, but the tell-tale drop in his voice, and the way his eyes darken slightly, tell you he’s hinting at other things, too, despite your illness. Not that you’re complaining; he said it himself in his message: it had been way too long since you’d been together, casually or otherwise, and you know that the warmth that’s steadily spreading through your body is only partly because of his mother’s chicken soup. Being this close to him makes your skin hum, and it has nothing to do with the chills that are still shaking your body. You find yourself staring at his profile as he works, his strong features not without boyish charm, and a small sigh escapes you. He turns and quirks a curious eyebrow, and licks his lips gently. Your cheeks heat again as you realize you more or less just swooned over him.

“I love that I can turn your cheeks pink, duck,” he muses, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He crosses the room in three steps, and you can’t help but watch his thighs underneath the snug denim.

It really has been way too long.

“Shall we watch a film, then?” He asks, winding his fingers with yours.

You wiggle your toes in your knees socks, and then catch a glimpse of the baggy sweater you’re sporting. Remembering that your hair is a state, you wrinkle your nose at the idea of spending another two hours on your couch without having at least had a bath. “I think a bath is in order first.”

He makes a face and delicately sniffs his shirt. “You sayin’ I smell bad, love?”

“You never smell bad,” you assure him. “But I might feel more human if I washed.”

He gives a little chuckle and nods. “Well, get goin’ then, yeah? I’ve got things squared away here.”

For a night in, it’s not shaping up too poorly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The shower is blissful; there’s really no other way to describe it. The hot pinpricks of water energize you, and sore muscles loosen as your head clears considerably. For a moment, you merely lean your forehead against the tiles and let the water pummel your face and neck. With your eyes closed, you go over the events of the evening, and the details of him, memorizing them. When he has to leave for long tours, it’s hard to let him go; it’s been getting harder the longer you’re an item, but it does give you a chance to do your thing. But when he comes back, you feel invigorated, inspired to tackle your tasks, and your own work, and you’re more than one-hundred percent sure that his presence this evening is a blessing in disguise. He has a soothing soul, one that peeks out when he allows it, and this evening has been a real treat. Tonight, you realize, he’s holding very little back.

You hum and stand straight, finishing your shower in record time, scrubbing down your skin with the apricot almond scrub you know he adores intensely, and you rinse your hair, running a satisfied hand over the smooth, wet strands. The blow dryer can wait, you decide, as you squeeze the excess water out of the tresses. You slip back into your robe, and head back towards your bedroom.

He’s seated on the edge of your bed, leaning back on his elbows, flicking through a book of photography that he’s found on one of the shelves. He’s lost the apron, thankfully, but his leather jacket appears to have taken up residence on your pillows, slung there rather carelessly, no doubt done after he came in from having a cigarette. When he hears you step into the room, he looks up, pursing his lips into a sweet smile, and then he looks you up and down.

“Finally look like one of the living, duck,” he winks, laughing as you give him the two-fingered salute and move to your drawers.

You hear fabric shift, the creak of the mattress, and then he’s behind you, his nose pressing behind your ear as he softly inhales. “I’ve missed the way you smell,” he murmurs into the collar of your bathrobe, and he settles a hand on the knot of your robe, warm, gentle pressure making your belly flip wonderfully.

“Missed the way you say me name. The way you look at me. I’m certain I’m driving the boys crazy with the way I’ve been talkin’ about you non-stop for four months.” His mouth moves to the nape of your neck, his warm, sweet breath tickling the fine hairs there. His other arm moves around you, his hand setting below your collarbones, his thumb tracing the dip between them. The feel of his skin on yours, his hands finally on you, makes you pause and tilt your head to one side with a gentle sigh.

“Missed kissing you, touching you, tastin’ you, feelin’ you...you know you’re in me veins, don’t you, darling? That I can’t do anything proper without you nearby. An’ I have to admit that I’m glad we stayed in tonight, despite the circumstances, because really, all I wanted was to be alone with you. To just be beside you, whether we’re out at some club, having too many drinks and dancing madly, or holding hands, or not speaking at all, just staring at some daft screen with a wreck of a film showing, as long as I’m in the room with you, it’s joost...easier, I suppose.”

His words, rolling with that lovely lilt, make your eyelids flutter as they sink deep, and home, and you shiver at the honesty there. If there’s one thing that you admire most about him, it’s his ability to be honest, completely open and true, when all the trappings of his lifestyle are peeled away and he’s just a young man, a silly, love-struck fool who makes you feel equally foolish. You love him, you really do, but you don’t tell him, and he doesn’t tell you, either. It’s not the time, or the place, and to be honest, you don’t think it ever will be. And you’re not one to live for what-ifs and maybes; your worlds are very different from each other, and to speculate on the outcome of a relationship seems to do nothing but doom it, so you reach behind you, curling your fingers through his hair and hold him close as he smiles against your ear.

“I see my attempt at being verbose has you at a loss for words.” It’s a joke between you both, him with his almost painfully particular way of choosing words and you with your verbal upchucking when the mood strikes you.

“I’m glad you’re here. Taking care of me,” you finally say, turning your head to just catch a glimpse of him in the corner of your eye.

He smiles crookedly. “I’ll take care of you no matter what,” he decides. He licks his lips and the hand that’s resting on the belt of your robe slowly starts tugging the knot open. “An’ I really want to...take care of you now, lamb,” he says slowly, carefully, judging your reaction. “It’s a dreadful time to ask, I’m certain, but…”

“Yes,” you reply, cutting him off. “Please,” you add, amazed that you’ve remembered your manners despite the fact the knot in the belt is now open and those long, graceful fingers are skimming along the warm, skin of your belly, still damp from the tub.

“Then you’ve got to _let_ me take care of you,” he enforces, cocking an eyebrow. “I mean it.” He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, one of many soft, sucking kisses he then trails along your jaw until he pauses to suck gently on your pulse. The hand on your collarbones slips inside of the robe, and he groans as he fills his hand with your breast, cupping it and squeezing firmly.

His hips gently buck into you from behind, the hand on your belly falling flat and pulling you back against him, just as he finds your nipple and slowly rolls his thumb over it it firm, maddening circles. Those fingers on your belly creep down, slipping under the soft, gray cotton of the panties you pulled on, and his hand delves deep, until he’s cupping you in a very warm grip between your thighs, and your breath has become short.

The robe his pulled from your body, and it falls to your feet as he turns you around, his fingertips now pulling and pinching the nipple his thumb had been assaulting moments before. He squeezes you gently between your thighs, sending a ripple of warm pleasure through your body. Your eyes slip closed as he leans down, taking a small nibble of your chin, and then working his way down your throat. 

The hand between your thighs moves, and you whine in protest, but are rewarded with him finding both breasts with his palms, mapping every inch of them with his fingertips, taking note of everything that makes you sigh, and whimper, and squeeze your thighs together. His breath his hot, and rapidly fans against the now tingling, tight peaks of your breasts, and as a new rolling wave of arousal coils in your belly, your eyes open dazedly to find him staring up at you from under dark brows. His eyes are almost black with arousal.

When his tongue flashes out, pink and wet, and skates across your nipple, you hiss, and your fingers find his hair and grip the thick strands, holding him close. Your eyes close at the thrill of pleasure that races up your spine, and he gently hushes you, his mouth wet against your nipple, and he asks that you open your eyes, watch him, he’s missed you watching him. 

It’s almost too much, really, when you do as he asks. Four months gone, with nothing but phone calls, and FaceTimes, silly emails, a few videos, and one drunken acoustic performance from the privacy of an Italian hotel room, filmed by his mate, have all been just a taste of him, visually and audibly. With his hands on you, him in your space, breathing each other’s air, and the charge between you enough to power all of Britain, you feel lightheaded, and your breathing becomes short and choppy.

He picks up on this right away, with his mouth firmly sealed over one nipple, sucking slowly, his tongue lazily flicking over the very tip of it. Every tug of his mouth pulls at the coil of lust in your belly, and your pulse races. “Gorgeous, love,” he mumbles. “Gorgeous, gorgeous tits, an’ I missed ‘em.” He kisses one and then the other, and then straightens, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Lay down, lamb.”

He gently pushes you towards the bed, catching you when the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Taking your hands in his, he coaxes you back, until your shoulders meet the quilt, and your legs are still hanging over the edge. You watch him crouch down, his fingers already curling into the sides of your panties. Once he’s kneeling on the floor, your panties are at your ankles, and he leaves them dangling there on one foot, before moving and draping your legs over his shoulders. His breath licks along the insides of your thighs, and your belly tightens as you realize his intentions. “Oh,” you breathe, reaching to comb his hair back from his face. “God, yes,” you mutter, the flat of his teeth pulling at the skin on the inside of your knee. He soothes the sting with his lips, and spins words of the softness of your thighs, the porcelain confection that is your skin, and the sweet and citrus tart that he’s been want for since March.

“Such a treat,” he sighs, leaning up and kissing the spot just above the delicate tangle of dark curls. His tongue glides down through the curls, sweeps them against your skin, and you can’t help the smooth arch of your hips, pushing against his mouth, as he does so.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, reaching to hold your hips in place. “Show me that treasure, princess, show me what I’ve come to collect.” 

Slowly, your thighs open, though they’re trembling with the sensation of his words. He makes a sound that oozes with pleasure, and your mouth hangs open as he looks at you. “Please,” you hear yourself mumble, shifting in his grasp.

“Mmm, yes, please, indeed,” he replies, moving one hand from your hip to the apex of your sex. His arm curls around your leg, and his hand is steady, thumb and forefinger gently parting delicate, slick folds, and you are utterly exposed to him as he slips the hood back from the sensitive knot of nerves at the top of your slit. Your pussy clenches involuntarily, making everything from your toes to your hips tense, and it only serves to make him hum in delight.

“Look at that fancy bit, then, darling. All lovely an’ pink, just watin’ for me.” He drops words for action, surging forward quickly. His tongue flickers against your entrance before sliding up and circling around your clit. The touch of his mouth lingers enough to make you gasp, and then he’s pulling back, his thumb and forefinger squeezing the plump lips of your pussy closed, rubbing gently up and down and making little electric pulses zip through you. Then, he opens you again, murmuring at how you get wet for him, and he takes a lick, swirling his tongue deeper, his mouth sliding over your pussy in a soft, lush kiss that makes you shake. You can feel how wet it’s making you, and he hasn’t even really started. You know what he’s capable of - you’ve been imagining it for a hundred days and then some.

He licks over and over again at your wetness, avoiding your clit for the time being, just savoring the taste, and texture that is his own little slice of heaven. His fingers work, though, gently squeezing the edges of your clit, pulling the hood back, and forward, all the things that serve to send flashes of hot and cold up your spine. He pushes his free hand against the inside of your other leg, pinning it to the mattress so that he might have the best view possible, and he leans over you again, burying his face right into you, the bridge of his nose bumping against your clit. He knows what he likes, and how to bring you off, and you can hear him wetly mumbling his praise for you, and your pussy, and the sweet cream you’re giving him. He’s dedicated to his craft, one hundred percent, and he doesn’t pull back until your hips are pushing against his face, eagerly fucking his tongue as it slips and curls inside of you.

A tiny, quivering orgasm flits through you, making you tighten on his tongue, and let out a breathy cry, while he groans at the feeling. It isn’t nearly enough, just a taste, really, and he gently pulls back with a soft, wet sound, before shifting very slightly and closing his lips around your clit with a deep hum. You hiss, back curving up in an arch, and you clutch his hair again, the nerves he’s toying with almost too raw. When the burning ache of your climax subsides, and you’re left with the lingering pulse of his lips against you, you groan, and comb through the tousled strands of his hair, laying your palm against his jaw and pulling his mouth against you.

“More, duck?” he rasps, moving so that he’s hovering over you, your leg still dangling from his shoulder. “God, you’re brilliant when you come like that, small, an’ delicate. Let’s make you come again, darling, shall we?”

You nod quickly, wordlessly, and there is a rapid sound pop-pop-pop as he tugs open the snaps to his shirt and shrugs out of it, leaving him in his jeans. Then, his palms smooth over your thighs and around to your hips, holding you in a firm, sure grip, before his lips settle just below your navel. Once more, his hair brushes your skin, and his breath ghosts over you as he kisses you from one hip bone to the other. 

With one knee on either side of you, and with some guidance, he turns you onto your front, and playfully walks his fingertips from the curve of one ass cheek up your spine. When he reaches your shoulder, he pushes your hair forward over it, and leans down over you, the tip of his tongue tracing along the edge of your ear. His denim-covered pelvis is ground into your hips, and you feel the cold trickle of metal from his chain land on your naked shoulder as he moves around, sucking wet kisses along your shoulders and the base of your neck. The chain trails down further, along your shoulder blades, and his lips wander down to the small of your back, followed by the tip of his tongue swiping across it. Gooseflesh rises in its wake, and you give a little shiver, and a moan.

“Can’t have this in the way,” he says softly, almost to himself. Seconds later, you feel the cold, slim line of metal almost weightless on your back, the clasp where he’s undone it draping down your spine from the middle of your back to the cleft of your ass.

“Hmmm...It looks lovely on your arse,” he muses.

Hearing this, you lean forward on your elbows and lay your head on his jacket, still draped over your pillows, turning to see his hands reaching for you to spread you open to his eye.

“Paved in gold, is it?”

His rich voice wrapping those words up tightly make you tremble in his hands, and he hushes you again. Most of the time, his touch elicits a thousand responses from your nerve endings, all jangling and jarring and clamouring for more, sending you into a wreck. At that moment, the feel of his wide, solid hands on your heated skin sends you into a calm you hadn’t anticipated. Knowing you’re in his very capable hands, and that all he wants to do is make you feel good, you turn your face into the leather that’s warming under your head and breathe in his scent. You can smell the months of spilled gin, the cologne he favors when he’s going to see you, the sweat… all of him. It makes you dizzy; you’re on overload, and you need him to do something because you’re precariously balanced between torture and pleasure. At this point, though, both are viable options.

His tongue gently traces the source of your wetness, up to the end of your chain, setting your body alight. You feel your pussy clench at the wash of arousal, and he sees it, muttering an interested, “Oooh,” like he’s just discovered a secret.

Angling your head to the side again, you see the near-black pools of his eyes light up and then glance down, and disappear, as his face moves towards you. His tongue teases your hole again, trying for the same reaction. When he gets what he wants, he throws caution to the wind and buries his tongue directly into your gripping, wet heat, the ridge of his nose fitting snugly between your ass cheeks. 

He sounds starved from the way he’s groaning his approval, his appetite both evident, and voracious, in the way he licks and sucks at your wetness with abandon. Deep inside, his tongue curls and drags the length of your channel, making you push back against his face, and drop your head between your shoulders. You can feel how wet you’re getting; it’s almost obscene, really, and the sounds he’s making match. With a clever flick of his tongue, he throws you for a loop, and the slick muscle dances up to your ass, where he circles slowly, his lips brushing against your cheeks in the process.

Your fingers clutch fistfuls of his jacket, and you know he hears the leather creaking, though it’s nothing compared to your whimpers and sobs. A smile crosses his lips against you, telling you that he can hear that, too. With a last lick, he gives you reprieve, and drops small, sweet kisses up to where the chain lies. Grasping the end in his calloused fingers, he drags it down until it’s hanging from the curve of your tailbone, the length of it gently swaying against the inside of your damp thigh.

Settling a hand on one curve of your ass, he crouches down with a hum, and then leans in, gathering the metal in his mouth, licking the inside of your thigh, his tongue going flat as it nears your pussy. You find yourself holding your breath, waiting for him to taste you again, but he draws away, leaving you trembling until you feel him behind you, over you, leaning forward to drop the chain from his mouth to the small of your back.

He’s in the mood to play, and you’re at mercy to his whim, and so you wait for his next move, knowing that the tactile beast he is will not fail to make you shake and holler and moan. His clever fingers trace circles on your ass, and over your hips, along the backs of your thighs, and then back up, and he’s not oblivious to your responses to his touch. Grasping the clasp of the chain once more, he pulls the length of it up your spine this time, until it’s one, long, gilded serpentine line along your backbone. Then, he pauses, and you cast a quick glance backwards and see him studying you.

“A fucking goddess,” he breathes, swooping in you kiss you on either side of the chain. “You know that’s what you are? You’re my goddess.” His lips suck on the skin along your ribs and down, towards your waist, and your hips, his tongue slipping out to leave wet spots where he’s tasted you, noting each sigh, and moan, and gasp.

His chest rumbles with the sound of approval he makes and you can feel it vibraitng through your skin from where he’s pressed against your ass. Suddenly, you need more, pushing back, looking for more contact, anything, really. The metallic clang of his belt unbuckling makes you close your eyes and gasp. Finally, you think, he’s going to give you relief for the burning, aching pleasure he’s been bringing off a slow simmer to a raging boil.

“Oh, needy, darling?” he murmurs, leaning back over you, his chest pressed right against your spine, his belly curved along your ass. His lips hover next to you ear as he says his next words: “I’ve got what you need, haven’t I?”

“Yes,” you hiss, gripping his jacket harder.

“Yes,” he agrees, pulling the chain from your skin and wrapping over and under his knuckles. The clasp feels like an anchor as he settles his hand on your shoulder, his other hand gripping your hip and keeping you steady. Then, he slowly drags his hand down, along your spine, and then back up, the ends of the chain cold in contrast to your skin, making another flush of gooseflesh rise, until his hand comes to rest on your other shoulder.

“Such a landscape to play upon, duck,” he barely whispers, dropping a single, soft kiss between your shoulders. As he leans back up, he pushes his hips forward, the hardness of his cock evident through the denim pressed against your ass. His open belt buckle hangs to the side, more cold metal to tease your skin with every slight push of his hips he gives.

When you tilt your hips up an extra inch, searching for more of him, he groans, and his fingers grip your waist tightly. “Can feel you scorchin’ me, lamb, right through me trousers. Got to ‘ave more.” His last words are more to himself than anything, and you feel the chain drop to your spine as he tugs he pops the button of his jeans open, drags the fly down, and shoves denim, and the cotton of his briefs, down past his hips. With the pressure behind his fly finally eased, he moans, and takes his cock in hand.

The burning hot skin smoothed taut around the swollen head of his cock is pressed against your ass with a rough growl, and his other hand flexes where it still holds your hip. 

“Feel that, lamb? Feel what you do to me? Make me crazy, make me so fucking mad with lust that I can’t control meself.” 

He jerks his cock once for good measure, and that’s when you feel a drop of pre-cum land between your ass cheeks, slipping right down to your tighter hole. Using one finger, he circles the spot of wet he’s made, and gathers it, pushing against your resistance, until you utter a desperate sound that makes him push his finger just a little further. Your whine is thin, and it shakes just a little, and he clicks his tongue and shushes you once more.

“Not tonight, darling, not yet. Though I want to, very much, I fear that given the state I’m in, I’m liable to hurt you and that’s not my goal for tonight.” His finger eases out, but he rubs the slightly stretched muscle until you’re moaning breathily, the hint of darkness in his words only making you that much more receptive to him.

Pulling back on your shoulder, he gently urges you, “Up, love,” and you comply, balanced on your knees in front of him, hands resting on your thighs. Behind you, he shifts, dropping his hips, and you feel his searing, hard heat against your entrance. He gives no warning before pushing up into your pussy, his fingertips wide across your hips as he pulls you back down onto him. There’s a hot, delicious pinch as he works his thick length inside, and you feel truly exposed because now he can feel how hot you are, how wet he’s made you with his ministrations. His lean hips roll, and give a little nudge, rocking gently until your ass is against his pelvis. Pressing against you, his lips brush over your shoulder once more.

It’s a shock to be so full after so long, and after so much build up in the few short hours he’s been with you. His chest is warm, and you can smell his skin and more of that faded cologne, and the cigarette he had before any of this started. You contract around him, relax, and then tighten again, your breath leaving in little sobs as your nerves are set alight. Reaching one hand up from your waist, he cups your breast, squeezing and kneading, gently prodding into your grasping pussy.

“That for me, eh?” He breathes. “Been waitin’ for me?” Gripping your arms above your elbows, he pulls them in towards each other, restraining you, and he stills at the sensations your body is making around his length. 

You’re desperate for him to move, even the tiniest bit, and just as your whine starts to crescendo from a huff to something pitiful, he slowly drops his hips so that you can feel him slide back out, the ridge of the head of his cock burning against you as it drags down to just inside of your entrance, stilling there, so still that you can feel his heart beat.

His hands slide to your wrists, and he holds them both with one hand, so that his other can sweep your hair to the side. With another smooth roll of his hips, he’s buried deep inside of you, moaning at the feel of you around him, his lips landing against your shoulder, mumbling over and over again, “Fuckin’ hell love, you feel so good, you feel so good, you feel so good.” His hips are thrumming, rolling up and into you and back out in a slow, tortuous pace.

You can feel every ridge of his length as it glides in and out of you, and you are acutely aware of how his thickness holds you open to the point of burning; you’re so open to him and vulnerable, that your wetness just slides down as his voice wavers against your skin.

“You know how love when you get wet for me, babe. Get wet for me. C’mon.” He pivots up and his hand tightens on your wrists, pulling you down.

The movement pushes the air from your lungs, and you feel the size of him inside of you, taking up all the space you didn’t think you had. He holds his hips in position, waiting until your hurried breathing slows. Then, he thrusts, his hips snapping up, only flesh moving against flesh, but throbbing inside so hotly.

He does it again.

And then again.

He slides out to the very tip, wrenching a sob from you as you panic, fearing the emptiness he’s left behind. Then, switching directions, he saws back into you, pushing and stretching, filling you up inch by inch. When he’s as far as he can fit, he stills his hips and one hand slides down your belly, the first two fingers slipping into your wet slit and finding your clit, pressing softly. His breath leaves him in a soft moan when he feels your pulse in your center, and feels you gripping him tightly, and it serves to make him ramble, hot words of pleasure and desire stealing past his lips and puffing against your neck and shoulder. He’s losing control; you can feel it in the tremble of his arms around you, and hear it in the way his voice wavers. 

You’re not far behind, though, and as he barely shifts his hips against you, you clutch at him where he’s buried deep in your body, working your muscles against him, until you feel the small, hot rush of more liquid arousal slip, and then trickle down his shaft. You’re delirious with the sensation, out of your mind with how he manages to keep you in control when he’s so close to losing it. He puts another clever spin on his fingers, rolling around your clit and making you sob. His name is a curse, and you can’t control the warbling, keening wails that are bubbling out of you. You’re begging him for more, begging him to move, just begging him, “Please, please, oh please, I need more, _please_ , fuck me.”

Giving your clit one last squeeze, his hand moves to your hip, and he sinks back to his heels, pulling you flush into his lap. He arches up as he moves you, and you come to the sharp realization that he hadn’t gone as deep as he could. He fills those last inches with a clever tilt of his hips, and it makes you sweat. Lava-like pleasure churns between your hips and warms your belly, your spine, your thighs, everything, and you bite your lip and bounce your hips back into his. One long, lean arm wraps around you, pinning your arm to your side, and his hand grasps your other wrist, effectively immobilizing your hands. He gives an experimental roll of his hips, out and down, and then up, and in, a sensual orbit of body and mind, grinding over nerves and that one spot in your pussy that makes you howl.

The head of his cock hits it now, and it’s like licking a nine-volt battery: everything jerks, and your legs go funny, as your brain tries to scramble back and make sense of the sensation. He jerks again, a hollow slapping sound filling the void, and your hoarse cry the echoing response. His cock slides out a tick. His hips move down. Then, he drives back in. The result is the same; your body vibrates and tingles and is hot and cold, and your eyes slip closed so you ride on the feelings he’s ripping out of you. He’s got you bouncing in his lap, skin against skin, grunting, and growling, though you can’t tell who’s doing what at this point. It doesn’t matter. It’s good. It’s so good, you can almost sink your teeth into it, gnash and tear, and fill up on it.

He thrusts up harder, his cock already swelling, and his voice gone breathy with impending release. His free hand moves your hair aside, and as he digs in and sets a fast, hard pace. It’s enough to trigger your climax; your nerves fall like dominoes, shuddering up and down your body, and you can’t take it anymore. Relaxing, letting him take over completely, you let him fuck you, rail you, ride you hard, until your quavering voice pipes up, “I’m gonna come.”

He grunts in response, and then sweeping your hair aside with his free hand, he continues pounding into your grasping pussy, moaning as more and more of your wetness coats him, sliding down and slicking him and your thighs. “Come on me, love,” he breathes. “Let me feel it.”

Distantly, you hear your chanting of “yes, yes yes,” and the angle of his cock hits you just right. You detonate, sucking in a deep breath, letting it go, doing it again, feeling oxygen, and endorphins, and adrenaline wash over you as your body lets go. A pitiful whine seeps out of your lungs as you come hard, around him, all over him, into his lap, and the hot surge of your release is enough to tip him into his own orgasm. You feel him swell, dig in, and then let go, and still his hips pound.

You could write sonnets about his orgasm, the way he sighs and moans, growls and groans, and coos, talking to himself, muttering about how much he loves getting off in the hot, quaking center that is your ‘coont.’ His orgasm is almost always guaranteed to trigger another one of yours, and this time is no exception. His hips still pound, he’s still moaning, and you feel another explosion building. “Again,” you gasp. “Oh, god, I’m gonna go again.”

He growls long, tipping up into a sharp cry as the arm restraining you moves up, hand cupping your shoulder, his forearm over your collarbones. His other hand takes up your hip and pulls you back to meet his punishing thrusts. Every time you land against his pelvis he holds you there, shaking with him, his already softening cock still searching deep. “God, love, you come so well. Do it again,” he pants. “Fuckin’ come.” The flat of his teeth score the skin on your shoulder blade. His words set you off, and the lingering vestiges of arousal wash over you again. His forehead rests on your back as the fight begins to leave him, but he holds out to feel you quiver in your climax one more time.

Your whole body is shaking, and there are no distinguishable words coming from you. His arm is still tight around you, his hand still digging into your hip, and you feel him smile against your shoulder. “Calm down, lamb,” he murmurs. “I’ve got ya.”

He doesn’t let go until the shaking subsides, and even then, there are still tremors, aftershocks wracking both of your bodies. When he slips from within you, it’s with a collective sigh of reluctance. Crawling to the head of the bed, you curl on your side, and he is quick to join you, his hands touching everywhere he can. He lands kiss after kiss along your shoulder, your neck, jaw, cheek, and ear, muttering about your fucking cold, and how it’s a shame you’re contagious, because now all he wants to do is kiss you until you fall asleep, and then wake you up before dawn, and start all over again.

“So get better, yeah?” he whispers, ending in a yawn, before he reaches over you and clicks the table lamp off. “An’ I’ll make your morning tea, and steep your mouth in kisses. God, I missed you, lamb,” he sighs, nuzzling into your neck. 

He mumbles something else, too, and you’re right on the edge of sleep, so you’re not quite sure what it is he’s said. Already, though, he’s fast asleep, his breath sailing softly over your shoulder, and so you don’t press him about it. Where you are, what you’ve got that moment, is better than anything before.

**Author's Note:**

> Whew! Y'all still with me? Thanks to nmbr1fanilow for putting a bug in my ear.
> 
> Coincidentally, I happened to be sick during the last few days I was finishing this. I didn't have my own Arctic Monkey to come and make me soup and take care of me, but I did listen to a lot of Submarine while it was raining.
> 
> I haven't the foggiest if an 'anise cozy' is an actual thing, but I do know that both rosemary and star anise are commonly used to help alleviate colds.


End file.
